Stay not, till all the lowly Triumphant reach their home; Stay not, till all the holy

Proclaim the Lord has come.

7 & 6s. M.

689.

HEBER.

Missionary Hymn.

1 FROM Greenland's icy mountains, From India's coral strand, Where Afric's sunny fountains Roll down their golden sand, From many an ancient river, From many a palmy plain, They call us to deliver

Their land from error's chain.

2 What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle,-
Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile?

In vain with lavish kindness
The gifts of God are strown;
The heathen in his blindness

Bows down to wood and stone.

3 Shall we, whose souls are lighted
By wisdom from on high,
Shall we to men benighted
The lamp of life deny?
Salvation! O salvation!

The joyful sound proclaim,
Till earth's remotest nation
Has learnt Messiah's name.

1 HERE to the High and Holy One
Our fathers early reared
A house of prayer, a lowly one,
Yet long to them endeared
By hours of sweet communion
Held with their covenant God,
As oft, in sacred union,

His hallowed courts they trod.

2 Gone are the pious multitudes
That here kept holy time,
In other courts assembled now
For worship more sublime.
Their children, we are waiting
In meekness, Lord, thy call;
Thy love still celebrating,

Our hope, our trust, our all.

3 These time-worn walls, the resting-place So oft from earthly cares To righteous souls now perfected,

We leave with thanks and prayers; With thanks, for every blessing Vouchsafed through all the past, With prayers, thy throne addressing For guidance to the last.

4 Though from this house, so long beloved, We part with sadness now,

Yet here we trust with gladness soon
In fairer courts to bow:

So when our souls forsaking
These bodies, fallen and pale,
In brighter forms awaking,
With joy the change shall hail.

1 THE perfect world, by Adam trod, Was the first temple,-built by God; His fiat laid the corner-stone,

And heaved its pillars one by one.

2 He hung its starry roof on high, — The broad, illimitable sky;

He spread its pavement green and bright, And curtained it with morning light.

3 The mountains in their places stood,-
The sea, the sky, and "all was good ";
And, when its first pure praises rang,
The "morning stars together sang."

4 Lord! 't is not ours to make the sea,
And earth, and sky a house for thee;
But in thy sight our offering stands,
A humbler temple, "made with hands."

1

C. M.

692.

R. W. EMERSON.

The House our Fathers built to God.

We love the venerable house

Our fathers built to God;

In heaven are kept their grateful vows,
Their dust endears the sod.

2 Here holy thoughts a light have shed
From many a radiant face,

And prayers of tender hope have spread
A perfume through the place.

3 And anxious hearts have pondered here
The mystery of life,

And prayed the Eternal Spirit clear
Their doubts and aid their strife.

4 From humble tenements around
Came up the pensive train,
And in the church a blessing found,
Which filled their homes again.

5 They live with God, their homes are dust;
But here their children pray,
And, in this fleeting lifetime, trust
To find the narrow way.

L. M.

693.

HEGINBOTHAM.

The God of the Seasons.

1 GREAT God! let all our tuneful powers
Awake and sing thy mighty name;
Thy hand rolls on our circling hours,
The hand from which our being came.

2 Seasons and moons, revolving round
In beauteous order, speak thy praise;
And years, with smiling mercy crowned,
To thee successive honors raise.

3 Each changing season on our souls
Its sweetest, kindest influence sheds;
And every period, as it rolls,

Showers countless blessings on our heads.

4 Our lives, our health, our friends, we owe
All to thy vast, unbounded love;
Ten thousand precious gifts below,
And hope of nobler joys above.

1 THE winter is over and gone,

The thrush whistles sweet on the spray,
The turtle breathes forth her soft moan,
The lark mounts and warbles away.

2 Shall every creature around
Their voices in concert unite,
And I, the most favored, be found
In praising to take less delight?

3 Awake, then, my harp, and my lute!
Sweet organs, your notes softly swell!
No longer my lips shall be mute,
The Saviour's high praises to tell.

4 His love in my heart shed abroad,
My graces shall bloom as the spring;
This temple, his Spirit's abode;
My joy as my duty to sing.

1 WHEN verdure clothes the fertile vale,
And blossoms deck the spray,

And fragrance breathes in every gale,
How sweet the vernal day!